


The Foundations of the Earth

by cmcross



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmcross/pseuds/cmcross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Were there any justice in the world he would never forget those nights he spent with Thorin or the way he would tremble and shake and cling to Bilbo’s slight frame after his peak overcame him, as if he thought Bilbo were naught but a fey thing, an ephemeral illusion, like smoke on the water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Foundations of the Earth

For if joyful is the fountain that rises in the sun, its springs are in the wells of sorrow unfathomable at the foundations of the earth." - JRR Tolkien, The Silmarillion

* * *

The Last Homely House was a beautiful place. Full of laughter and light and song, it shone as a beacon for lost and weary souls looking to escape what trials dogged their heels. It was a place of refuge and recovery, a hearth by which to rekindle ones hopes, but Bilbo Baggins would find no solace there for his heart was burdened with sorrows beyond all measure.

In his dotage he would sometimes wander the winding pathways that snaked around _Karningul_ [1], the afternoon sun shining like a Silmaril as it sunk below the horizon, with a smile upon his lips and a distant gleam in his eye.

He cherished those moments when his memories would grow stronger and stronger, until he could almost see the flaps of Bofur’s hat disappearing around the bend or hear Kili’s raucous laughter down the hall, for such remembrances were few and far and fading.

Were there any justice in the world he would never forget those nights he spent with Thorin; never forget the way the mighty Dwarrow’s face would slacken with passion as Bilbo rutted inside him, flesh slapping obscenely against flesh, or the way he would tremble and shake and cling to Bilbo’s slight frame after his peak overcame him, as if he thought Bilbo were naught but a fey thing, an ephemeral illusion, like smoke on the water.

It is his due, he thinks, after all he has endured. He’s earned it. But he knows too that the Valar do not care for the wants, desires, or just deserts of a lowly Hobbit of the Shire. He learned that long ago, on a faraway battlefield littered with Elves and Men and Orcs and the broken dreams of those he’d come to love more than the rolling hills and little rivers of his homeland.

He’d been content, he supposed. He had Frodo and Bag End and… well, his bed hadn’t exactly been a _cold_ one. Hamfast had been a regular enough guest, along with a few others, but none of them could compare, could hold a flickering candle within a stone’s throw, to the Dwarven King.

It should have shamed him to admit he’d only ever thought of Thorin whenever he’d entertained a guest, had closed his eyes and willed the soft, malleable, hairless body beneath him to transform, to become broad and strong, for the hair to grow and lengthen and twist itself into warriors braids, but it did not. His love for Thorin, though rooted in great sorrow, was as unshakeable as the foundations of the earth. Shame would never mar it.

It seems trite somehow to wish things had gone differently, but he does. He always has.

Every year, when his friends and loved ones gather round to watch him blow out his candles, time seems to slow down. He will look around at their faces, remembering those who should be there, but aren’t, then close his eyes and pray to those he no longer believes are listening, _‘Please. Give me this. Give me this one thing, that’s all I ask.’_

Tomorrow will be no different.

In the morning he will celebrate his one hundred thirty first birthday. He will smile and laugh and sing and dance as though the ghost of Thorin Oakenshield does not haunt his every waking moment.

(It does. It’ll never leave him.)

And when he crawls into bed, his bones creaking and cracking like burning trees atop a jagged cliff face, he will run his hands over his own wizened body and, for the life of him, he will not be able to recall the feel of rough, work hardened muscles beneath his hands nor the shape of his beloveds’ mouth.

Many years ago, before he’d realized it’d happened, he’d forgotten the exact shade of blue Thorin’s eyes were. Were they once the shade of bluebells, bloomed full and bright in the early days of spring? Or were they more akin to The Water [2] in mid-winter, sharp and icy but prone to melting when sunlight and warmth came its way?

Oh, how he longed to see those eyes once more. How many hours had he spent pouring over ancient tomes, texts, and maps, eyes lingering on the Helcaraxë [3], wondering, _Could it be done? Could he reverse the steps of the Noldor [4] and cross the Grinding Ice [5] to the Undying Lands?_

What an adventure that would have been.

But Frodo had come, with the needs and wants of a child so new to the pain of profound loss, and Bilbo could not stand to leave him so. Not when he himself knew of the emptiness that plagued the boys heart; the galling pain of losing those you love too soon whilst knowing no amount of time with them would have ever been enough.

How many years had passed since then? How many trials had they, the last Bagginses of Bag End, faced? And would there ever be peace? When the singing and dancing was over and they met with their friends at Woody End [6] so that they may journey to the Grey Havens, and onwards, across Belegaer [7], would they find respite?

If he journeyed to the Halls of Awaiting would he find Thorin there? Did his beloved sit amongst his Dwarven brethren, his fallen comrades, friends, and family, waiting for Aulë to call him to his aide?

Well, there was really only one way to find out, wasn’t there?

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Nikki for being so patient with me about this story. She prompted it after winning me at the Fanfiction Authors Auction (which was a million years ago).
> 
> And now, footnotes:
> 
> 1\. Geunuine Westron meaning "cut valley", it is another name for Imladris or Rivendell. [Foster, Robert. A Guide to Middle-earth. Baltimore, MD: Mirage, 1971. 218-19. Print.]
> 
> 2\. Stream in The Shire, running through Needlehole and Bywater and emtying into the Brandywine just above the Bridge of Stonebows. [Foster, Robert. A Guide to Middle-earth. Baltimore, MD: Mirage, 1971. 218-19. Print.]
> 
> 3\. The strait between Araman and Middle-earth. [Tolkien, J. R. R. Index of Names. The Silmarillion. Second ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. 335. Print.] 
> 
> 4\. Refers to the Flight of the Noldor where Fingolfin and his brethren fled to Middle-earth. [Tolkien, J. R. R. Index of Names. The Silmarillion. Second ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. 79-90. Print.]
> 
> 5\. Another name for the Helcaraxë. [Tolkien, J. R. R. Index of Names. The Silmarillion. Second ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. 335. Print.] 
> 
> 6\. Woods in the Eastfarthing of The Shire. It was here Frodo and Samwise met with the Last Riding of the Keepers of the Rings. [Foster, Robert. A Guide to Middle-earth. Baltimore, MD: Mirage, 1971. 218-19. Print.] [Tolkien, J. R. R. Appendix B: The Chief Days from the Fall of Barad-Dûr to the End of the Third Age. The Return of the King: Being the Third Part of The Lord of the Rings. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1965. 1071. Print.]
> 
> 7\. The Great Sea of the West, between Middle-earth and Aman. Frequently called the (Great) Sea, the Western Sea, and the Great Water. [Tolkien, J. R. R. Index of Names. The Silmarillion. Second ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1977. 319. Print.]


End file.
